


Naughty Passenger

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Humor, Kink Meme, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-23
Updated: 2011-09-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:30:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s gone too far, and I’m serious this time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Naughty Passenger

This is a fill for a [prompt on the kinkmeme](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/9640.html?thread=48767400#t48767400): “Sherlock will only have sex if he can roleplay things.”  
   
   
   
   
   
 **EXCERPTS FROM THE DIARY OF JOHN WATSON**  
   
   
 **2 February 2010**  
   
Moving Day.  
   
My bedroom is, as estate agents say, “cosy,” but my things all fit just fine, and I was well pleased, that is, until I saw Sherlock’s bedroom. Not only is his room twice the size, it’s got a walk-in closet nearly as big as my room! Though between the two of us, he’s the one who likely needs a walk-in closet more. He seems a bit of a clothes-horse. Must admit, it suits him down to the ground. I reckon a fit bloke like that ought to wear bespoke. No good hiding that physique with ill-fitting clothes.  
   
Why am I saying all this.  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **1 March 2010**  
   
Sherlock loaned me his camera yesterday, and today I went to return it to his room. He was out, so I reckoned it would do no harm if I just had a peek in his closet to see precisely how much Armani he actually owned. But when I went in, there was an enormous wardrobe at the foot of the bed. Between the bed and the wardrobe, there was hardly room left to walk. I looked in the wardrobe and saw six identical jackets, a dozen shirts in various colors (but mostly white), and so on. Nothing exciting. I snuck a look in the drawer beneath, as well. Black silk boxers. Of course. It had to be that or nothing at all, though once I realised my suspicion had been confirmed, I wondered why I’d ever entertained a suspicion about it in the first place.  
   
So I squeezed by the wardrobe to see what ended up going in the closet. It turned out to be almost completely empty. All that I saw were two articles, which were hung up on opposite sides. On the one side was a sea-green exam gown, just like you’d find in a surgery. On the other side was a white lab coat. I had this feeling about it, so I tip-toed in to get a better look, and it was mine! Last week the thing went missing. I showed up for work and it wasn’t hung up on the door, so I thought, “Oh, I must have accidentally worn it home yesterday.” But when I went back to the flat, it wasn’t there either. Turns out the lanky bastard nicked it! But what for?  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **3 March 2010**  
   
So...last night I found out what was going on with the patient gown and the coat.  
   
I was cleaning my teeth and I heard Sherlock start bawling. “John! Come upstairs! I feel ill!” I’ve learned by now that Sherlock is not one to admit any weaknesses, not hunger or fatigue or anything, so if he was calling this urgently, I thought it must have been something serious, and he was likely already far gone. I raced up to his room, only to find the door closed and my lab coat hung on the doorknob. There was a note pinned to it that said “WEAR THIS.” Another thing I’ve learned is that Sherlock will often ask you to do strange, inexplicable things, but it always turns out to be for a good reason and you’re thankful if you’ve listened to him. So I put the coat on as quickly as I could, and burst into the room only to find Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed, wearing the gown. He’s got one of those massive four-posters, with the mattress four feet off the ground. All the sheets had been stripped off the bed and a big piece of butcher paper put down. It looked like he was trying to do up the bed like an exam table.  
   
He described the broadest of symptoms: headache, fatigue, indigestion, malaise. I still didn’t quite understand what was going on at that point, so I was ignoring the props and trying to ask how he’d been eating lately, if he’d had trouble sleeping. But he interrupted me and insisted that I check his vital signs. He held a stethoscope out to me, to use on him. My patients don’t normally do that, but alright, whatever, it’s Sherlock.  
   
So I listened, just as I would for an ordinary patient. Seemed fine, and I told him so. He said, “Feel my glands, doctor.” So I pressed my fingers against his sub-mental and supraclavicular lymph nodes. Once again, felt normal. Then he said, “ _All_ my glands.” I’d quite caught on by this point, but I saw no harm in it. Not sure whether I should have felt a fool for being taken in, or flattered by his interest.  
   
I asked him to lie back. I explained that I was going to lift his gown so I could feel. He lifted it for me.  
   
He said he was worried it might be cancer. I said, “You what?” He said, “Yes, prostate cancer. You should check.”  
   
I had him hop off the “table” and turn around and bend over. He nodded his head toward the bedside table, and there was some Vaseline there. So I did the exam using the standard procedure, and oh God, did he go off like fireworks. I’ve had to give my share of prostate exams, but never have I seen a man react as enthusiastically as Sherlock did. Which, I mean, thank God for that, because the other men I’ve given that exam to, I would certainly not want to see them react enthusiastically.  
   
When I removed my finger, he said, “That seemed a little hasty. I think you should give it one more going-over, to be certain.” So I did it again, and there was more of the same.  
   
He also asked for a particular examination that is not even physiologically possible for a man, but after I told him this he got tetchy and said in a stage whisper that that was the point of role-playing, and proceeded to pretend like he was “putting his feet in the stirrups.” I didn’t even know what to do at that point, but by then he was just ordering me around, making up all sorts of bizarre “examinations” and “procedures” that might serve some dubious medical purpose in the Bizarro Universe but which mainly involved manipulating his erogenous zones.  
   
Then, when I was just about at the end of my tether, he asked me to administer a special “injection.”  
   
Long story short, the rest of the evening went quite well, I thought.  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **19 April 2010**  
   
Package came in the mail today, but Sherlock wouldn’t show me what it was. In the past he’s always wanted to show me what he’s had delivered, like a cat that will proudly present the dead thing it’s dragged in. “Look John! Toes!” And then the flat’s so full of smoke from the dry-ice in the package, it’s like a bloody Spinal Tap concert.  
   
But anyway, he wouldn’t show me what was in this package, and that just made me curious. I asked for a hint. He said, “Oh, it’s just some things to go in the closet.”  
   
   
 **21 April 2010**  
   
Found out what was in the package last night. More fancy dress. Sherlock had the whole thing planned and scripted. I was to be the randy old Master Of The House. He gave me a smoking jacket to wear, which was dead comfortable. He explained that I should follow him about the flat and make incessant advances toward him. I’ll admit it took a while to get used to him in that French maid outfit. Think it’s because he’s so tall. Outfit like that, you picture someone more petite and dainty. Really showed off his legs, though.  
   
So he’d have his feather-duster out, dusting the skull or such-like, bending over even though the skull’s up on the mantel, and I’d try to have a feel, and he’d say “Oh, sir, what if the mistress saw?” It felt even sillier than playing doctor, but I humoured him, and you know, I never noticed it before, but his giggle is _infectious_. So I couldn’t help but get into it a bit, and it turned out to be great fun.  
   
Got half the flat cleaned, as well, so can’t say I wouldn’t be up for doing that again.  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **17 June 2010**  
   
[...]After we’d put on our outfits, Sherlock had to explain to me what Pon Farr was. It sounded like things might get a bit rough, so I asked if perhaps we could have a safeword.  
   
He said, “John, safewords are for people who don’t like fun. Now hold your lirpa like I showed you.”  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
   
 **31 June 2010**  
   
[…]Sherlock didn’t have an outfit for himself. He just had his street clothes on. But he gave me a dark blue shirt and a hat to wear. Got a look at myself in the mirror, and I looked like a security guard. He said that was indeed the case. I would be a security agent at Heathrow, and he would be a naughty airline passenger. (He always described our characters as “naughty.” Naughty teacher. Naughty duke. Naughty aeronautics engineer. Naughty bee. Naughty Jedi. Naughty porno actor. Bit redundant, that last one.)  
   
He explained that the doorway would be a metal detector. We had to kind of wing it, because we didn’t have a way to make a pretend conveyer belt for luggage. He just walked through the “metal detector” carrying the luggage. As he walked through, I said, “Sir, can you step to one side please.”  
   
I ordered him to put his luggage on the bed and open it himself. I had no idea what was in it. He opened it, threw the lid back, and took a step back so I could get a clear view. Inside were more sex toys than I’d ever seen in my life. I mean, every size, shape, and color. Some of them, I had no idea what they might even be for, what orifice they were supposed to go into. I made a grab for one that whose shape was fairly straightforward, and I said, “What’s this, hm? A bomb?” He looked very timid and embarrassed and said it wasn’t a bomb. I said, “Would you explain to me what it is, then, sir?” He blushed and said it was a “personal item.” I said, “Razors and deodorant, those are personal items, sir. This looks like a weapon.” I instructed him to show me how it was turned on, but even then I acted incredulous. The thing was vibrating like mad in his hand, and it was really difficult to stay in character, because it was quite comical. But I was also getting into it, so I said, “If it’s not a bomb, then you won’t mind showing me how it _is_ used.”  
   
He hesitated for a moment, then took down his trousers and explained that he would need some assistance, as it _could_ be used by an individual alone, but it would be easier if I gave him a hand. I told him that was against security policy, and insisted he use it himself.  
   
After I was satisfied that the item was what he said it was, I just kept on pulling items out of the luggage, insisting he prove, in a comparable manner, that each one was not a bomb.  
   
By the end of the evening, I had definitely found out what all the toys were for, even that one that was shaped like a dolphin with encephalitis. I won’t forget that thing anytime soon. Whoever came up with the idea for that should be given the fucking Nobel Prize.  
   
   
 **3 July 2010**  
   
The closet’s really filling up. I had a look in there today, and already there’s a new outfit.  
   
The clothes on my side are brand new and seem a bit of a mish-mash. Tan jacket, dark blue jeans. On the shelf above is one of those trendy hats like a fedora, but with a narrower brim, that prats wear, and also there’s a paisley scarf rolled up beside.  
   
The clothes on his side look a little more ordinary: a rumpled button-down shirt and well-worn blue jeans. Mismatched socks. I saw something peeking out of the collar of the shirt, and when I examined it more closely, it was a name tape, like are sewn into kids’ clothes when they go away to boarding school. But this was a grown man’s shirt. Can’t wait to find out what’s going on here.  
   
   
 **4 July 2010**  
   
Found out what the new outfits were for. He made me put on the hat and scarf and all that, and then we had perfectly normal, missionary sex. The only other thing he asked was that I call him this name that I can’t remember at the moment, one of those twelve-syllable names that posh gits have in comedy programmes that are making fun of posh gits. I said, “Sherlock, two things: one, no one would ever actually be called that, and two, how am I supposed to scream that name when I’m trying to have an orgasm?”  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **2 August 2010**  
   
Jesus Christ, that fucking corset hurt like a bastard. How did women ever...anything?  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **27 August 2010**  
   
He’s gone too far, and I’m serious this time.  
   
I’d been feeling up for it, and I know it’s cheating, but I popped into his room just to see what was in the closet lately. I should have known I’d be punished for peeking.  
   
On his side was a tweed jacket, and dark trousers and black boots. There were two shirts, one light red and one light blue, and hanging off the shoulder of each one, a red bowtie and a blue bowtie, respectively.  
   
On my side was a blouse and a denim skirt and Converse trainers and tights. That was not _even_ the part I was the most crapped off about.  
   
I grabbed the stuff from his side of the closet and marched downstairs with it and said, “What is the meaning of this?”  
   
He said, “Well, the blue ones are for when we go to places that are in the past, and the red ones are for when we go to places that are in the future.”  
   
I was completely stunned.  
   
So I’m angry at him for two reasons. First, he wants to take my most cherished childhood hero and sully him with weird sex games. Second, now I have to go back and watch all of the last series to see if he’s right about what the two different-colored bowties mean.  
   
   
[...]  
   
   
 **30 September 2010**  
   
I’d like to think that I have been a very good sport about this fancy dress stuff, but today Sherlock uttered a phrase that I’d hoped never to hear from his, or anyone’s, lips:  
   
“Naughty eldritch horror.”  
   
This will be my last entry, as I have decided to leave London to join a monastery.


End file.
